


I beng nîn linna a vagol lîn

by Tiofrean



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: A Small PDA, Blow Jobs, Boys In Love, Developing Relationship, Faramir is a Cinnamon Roll, Fluff and Angst, Hand Jobs, Idiots in Love, M/M, Post-War, Someone Help Them, no arwen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 12:02:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18282077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiofrean/pseuds/Tiofrean
Summary: Aragorn had a problem. It was not the usual problem kings had - the treaties did not bother him, the farmers were very polite when coming to him for advice on disputes, and the council lords were overly understanding of his yet unpracticed kingship. Everyone seemed to be quite taken with him - whether it was his charm absorbed from the elves in Rivendell or the fact that he was a king after so many generations of stewards, Aragorn was not sure, but he was grateful for it. Everyone loved him… everyone, but the person he needed to love him.





	I beng nîn linna a vagol lîn

**Author's Note:**

> Hello world! My first foray into LOTR fanfiction, betaed by MermaidSheenaz (Dziękuję! <3). I hope you like it!

It was about six months after the coronation when Faramir had first noticed that something was amiss when it came to their beloved king. Elessar was not as chatty as in the beginning, rarely seeking companionship, choosing rather to will away his time in the library or in his study. Faramir could swear that the king smiled more and more rarely with every passing day, reserving his amused looks and shy laughs for the times they were together, almost as if he was reluctant to be seen as anything else than the stoic ruler everyone seemed to take him for. Gone was the playful grin with which he had once greeted Faramir in the houses of healing, prompted by his own hushed tale about sneaking away from his personal guard to visit the young steward. Instead, a solemn expression appeared on Aragorn’s face often enough to be worrisome. 

There was also the problem of the king not taking good care of himself. Faramir knew that the times were difficult - the rebuilding of Gondor they had undertaken was a serious and draining task, but it was not an appropriate excuse for their ruler to stop eating dinners and working through most of his suppers. Valar knew that the war had taken a lot out of them, there was no need to add to the burden their bodies had been made to endure. They had enough food to share with Rohan and still eat till they were full, so Aragorn not attending the dining hall at least a few times a week was starting to worry the steward. Elessar was already too thin as it were and, Faramir feared, if that was to continue, he would disappear completely. 

This is why the steward had taken it upon himself to feed their king. He would wait for Aragorn to come for dinner and, when that did not happen, he would load a plate of whatever the cooks had come up with on the given evening and carry it to Aragorn’s study himself. The king would blush and thank him profusely, making some excuse or another about being busy with treaties, before he would eat reluctantly. He would never just dig in and devour the food - rather, he would take a few bites, inquire if Faramir had had any already, then insist on sharing it with him. The first time it had happened, Aragorn had had to make it into a command before Faramir had caved and shared the meal with him. 

The memory of the evening was one of the fondest Faramir had, too. 

Shortly after that memorable dinner, Faramir had discovered that the king was not sleeping peacefully, either. He had stumbled upon Aragorn one evening, long past the time everyone had already departed for their beds. Elessar had been sitting in one of the private gardens, his face turned upright, eyes closed, a slight breeze threading through his unruly hair, ruffling it and making it sway gently. Faramir had been instantly taken aback by this beautiful vision, his body and heart reminding him that he had indeed had a few intimate relations with his fellow rangers in the past. It had been a brief moment of awareness, a there-and-gone glimpse, before his mind had reminded him that it had been his liege he had been staring at. 

Little had Faramir known that his mind would have to do a lot of such reminding in the upcoming months. 

In the garden, Faramir had walked up to Aragorn, announcing his presence with unnecessarily loud steps. He had inquired about the king’s wellbeing, but Aragorn had answered him with just a smile, then had promptly steered the conversation into another direction. They had talked about the stars, about the beauty of Rivendell and Ithilien, about how they had missed their ranger days. It had been a very nice evening which, unfortunately, had started a disturbing chain of them…  _ Disturbing, _ because as much as Faramir liked to spend his free time with the king, who was becoming his dear friend, it was clearly visible that sleepless nights had left Aragorn exhausted and looking paler with every passing week. 

 

-&-

 

Aragorn had a problem. It was not the usual problem kings had - the treaties did not bother him, the farmers were very polite when coming to him for advice on disputes, and  the council lords were overly understanding of his yet unpracticed kingship. Everyone seemed to be quite taken with him - whether it was his charm absorbed from the elves in Rivendell or the fact that he was a king after so many generations of stewards, Aragorn was not sure, but he was grateful for it. Everyone loved him… everyone, but the person he  _ needed _ to love him. 

The king sighed, staring in dismay at his desk covered with an array of parchments. He loved Faramir, he was sure of it now… it would be hard not to be after six months of fiery butterflies eating him from the inside every time they were even remotely close to each other.  And he knew that Faramir loved him too, in a way. He was the Steward of Gondor, and Aragorn was his king… Of course, they had become good friends during the last six months, spending time together, discussing papers and treaties, confiding their worries in each other. But there was still the nagging feeling at the back of Aragorn’s mind that all Faramir was doing was out of duty for his king… maybe for his  _ friend, _ in the best case scenario. 

Aragorn was very happy with their friendship, but he wanted  _ more. _ He knew he could not have it, knew that Faramir had showed a very deep interest in Éowyn before she had gone back to Rohan to help with the rebuilding of her own kingdom… Besides, even if there was the slightest chance that Faramir would look twice at him, that he would not be against two men being together in every sense of the word, the court would not look upon such a union kindly. The lords were old, firmly in the grip of ancient laws and traditions, with their brains washed by Denethor’s too long and strict rule…  _ No, there was no hope for them, even if they were to try it.  _

“Damn it!” Aragorn hissed,  grabbing a book and smashing it down on the top of his desk, hearing the satisfying crunch of the quill trapped underneath. He knew that there would be a blot of black ink spreading on the newest treaty he had been working on, but suddenly, he did not care. He was feeling  _ lonely, _ his nights spent alone in his bedchambers, his mornings cold and unfriendly.  Waking up alone had never bothered him, even after he had tasted the beauty of Arwen in the early rays of sunshine, back when they had stolen a few moments together in Rivendell. He had had no trouble going back to his solitary life as a ranger, no trouble at all to sleep on the unforgiving, cold ground, and to wake up to rain falling down on him before the sun had even made its appearance. 

But Arwen was gone, probably making herself a new home in the Undying Lands, and really, Aragorn knew that it was for the better. He was happy for her, even when his heart ached with the prospect of never seeing her again… she was an Elf,  _ the daughter of the king, _ one of the most beautiful creatures he had ever seen with his own two eyes… Aragorn wished her the best, hoped she would think fondly of him and that she would find someone to share her eternal life with. He knew that was the right way - the  _ only _ way - this could have happened. 

But all his good-wishing, all his positivity about this topic did not,  _ could not, _ cancel the fact that he was  _ lonely. _ Faramir was his only true friend in the castle after the Fellowship had departed. There was always Legolas working in Ithilien, a ten-leagues-long ride away if the king wished for company, but Aragorn knew deep down that it was not friendship, but love his heart was longing for. 

_ Love it had seemingly found in the form of his steward, impossible as it may be.  _

_ “Damn it!” _ Aragorn seethed again, picking up the book he had previously smashed against the desk and throwing it into the corner of his study angrily. There was no satisfaction when it thudded hollowly against the wall, nor was there any when he spotted the black blot directly above the word “jewels” he had previously written on the parchment with his own hand. 

“I hope that book did not offend you, my king, or I would have to reprimand it, and I do not know any language that may be sufficient to speak reason to it.” Came a soft, amused voice. Aragorn jerked his head up, his eyes wide. 

Faramir was standing in front of him, one foot inside his study, the other still lingering behind the threshold. He had one hand on the door, pushing it open, obviously in the act of entering the room, halted short by his king’s outburst.  Suddenly, Aragorn felt like smacking himself. He knew well just how much Faramir loved books, how highly he regarded the old tomes holding knowledge. He was ready to apologize , opening his mouth to find the right words to justify his foolish action and exculpate his temper, when his eyes fell on Faramir’s face. 

The young steward had a playful smirk gracing his lips, a curious twinkle in his eyes, and Aragorn found it hard to breathe. He was a vision, his Faramir, with his hair like flames in the soft glow coming from the fireplace, all the more noticeable in the stark contrast to the half-darkness around him. His elegant, archer’s fingers were still wrapped around the edge of the door, and Aragorn had to swallow heavily to make his throat work properly when he imagined that same hand gripping something else. 

_ Oh yes, he had a problem… _

“Faramir!” He said instead, not really a difficult word, considering it had been constantly in his mind for the past six months. “I… sorry,” he mumbled, getting up quickly in an attempt at retrieving the book. He was halfway to it when Faramir finally stepped in and closed the door behind him with a rather loud noise.    
“Sire?”    
“I am sorry, I lost my patience, it is just… the day was long, and… the treaties...” Aragorn apologized, picking the tome up and dusting it off gently, bringing it back to the desk and placing it upon it with all the respect it deserved in Faramir’s eyes. The steward was watching him calmly from his spot in front of the desk, a frown settling over his gorgeous features, wiping away the amusement he had entered the room with. 

“Why are you apologizing, my king?” He asked levelly, his eyes watching Aragorn curiously.    
“I should not have thrown that book,” Aragorn explained, feeling himself blush. Those books were like old friends to Faramir, and to treat them like he had, made him feel ashamed. He looked up at the steward hesitatingly, biting his tongue not to let his thoughts slip past his lips. But Faramir just shook his head distractedly, his frown deepening.    
“‘Tis alright, there is nothing to apologize for. You are the king, and you can do whatever you want, sire.” He explained, this time making Aragorn’s eyes widen.    
“But… you love those books!” The king exclaimed, waving his hand over the tomes still resting on his desk.    
“If hurling them at the nearest wall helps you solve problems, my king, then by all means, hurl them to your heart’s content,” Faramir stated, a small smile spreading over his lips, once again robbing Aragorn of his breath. 

 

-&-

 

They had relocated to a little private dining room after that. The room was attached to the main hall,  a small and cosy chamber with two armchairs and a low table, clearly meant for the royal couple to enjoy a quiet evening in. Faramir was beyond pleased to be seated here with his king, but worry kept nagging on him even there. Aragorn was too quiet, especially after his initial outburst. 

He had caught a glimpse of the cover of the book as it flew in the air earlier, and it had taken him but a moment to recognize it. It was old, it held the knowledge of rituals practiced by the peoples of North Ithilien in the second age, and it was not even a bit as valuable as Aragorn deemed it to be. There had been two more copies of it, made a lot later than the original, with valuable errata added on the margins. The tome Aragorn had used to vent his frustration on had been marked as one to be given away to another library had the possibility presented itself. 

Faramir was not worried about the book the king had thrown at the nearest wall…  _ he was worried about the king himself.  _

Aragorn was sitting in the chair next to him, his forlorn gaze stuck in the flames of the fireplace and his food untouched on the plate in front of him. There was something eating him from the inside, but he was too stubborn to let his steward know how he could help. Faramir knew he would not get an answer even if he tried hard to get it out of his friend, not if Aragorn did not want to give it. So he sat there, pondering what could be troubling his liege so much, when an idea came to him. 

He had always had a gift of reading people’s hearts. It was not something he used often, and never something he used lightly - it was a disgraceful transgression of privacy, after all. The last time he had used it, it had been with Smeagol and he had done it only to assess the threat he might have posed for the Hobbits. Doing this to Aragorn, his friend,  _ his king, _ was out of question.  Besides, what would he say then?  _ My king, I know what is troubling you even if you have not said a word of it, let me help? _ No, he could not do it. 

Sighing, irritated with his inability to help, Faramir stared at Aragorn, trying to find the right words to bring him out of his mindful state. 

 

-&-

 

It was torture. Aragorn still was not sure why he subjected himself to quiet evenings like this one, only him and Faramir in the room, sitting so very close to each other.  It was  _ torture _ to sit there and not be able to touch, not be able to kiss the young steward and thus tell him of the fiery storm raging inside his king. Aragorn hated it… and  _ loved  _ it at the same time. His fingers were itching to grab Faramir’s hand, and even if he knew he could not do that, he was excited just by the mere prospect of it happening. He had a very good imagination, and the close proximity of his desires only fueled it further. He could easily think up thirty different ways they could spend time inside his private dining room, and that was when he was tired. 

The way Faramir’s gaze slipped over him, heavy but gentle, almost like a physical caress, was another torment in and of itself. Aragorn would do anything to be able to exchange the lingering looks with hungry hands, busy satisfying his desires. 

He closed his eyes to compose himself, then opened them again, trying to appear calm. He knew that there was no way he could just go and tell Faramir what he felt - it would probably ruin their friendship beyond any hope for repair. But it was becoming increasingly harder to just remain idle. He craved to have the young man in his arms, yes, but he also wanted to spend more time with him, wake up together in the mornings and get back to bed in the night, surprise him with an impromptu visit on the balcony or a stroll in the gardens in the light of day… 

“Is there any trouble that is constantly on your mind, my king?” Faramir’s soft voice cut through Aragorn’s thoughts, and he closed his eyes with a sigh. 

_ A, meleth nîn!  _

“Sire?” Faramir asked again when Aragorn remained silent to his inquiry.    
“You do not have to use the titles here, Faramir,” the king said instead, glancing at his loyal steward. “Certainly not when we are alone like this.” He added when Faramir shrugged.    
“Old habits die hard.”    
“Old habits? Did you have a king to bow to before I came here?” Aragorn asked teasingly, but all the amusement vanished from his mind when he took in the slight shadow crossing Faramir’s features.    
“My father would not suffer me to call him anything but his title when we were not in private. And I rarely spent time with him in private, so…” Faramir sighed, looking into the flames in front of them. 

Aragorn winced. He had not thought much about how Faramir’s life had been before he had come here. Denethor was a very strict ruler, he was not surprised to hear that he would transfer the same stern rule to his sons, but to hear of Faramir not spending time with his father was a very saddening thing indeed.    
“Forgive me,” he spoke quietly, “it is not my place to discuss such a personal topic with you.”    
“No, my kin-  _ Aragorn,” _ the steward looked back at him, eyes wide. He shook his head. “It warms my heart greatly to know that you care about me…” 

_ If you only knew how much, meleth nîn, _ Aragorn thought to himself. 

“...but, I upset you,” Aragorn went on, dragging his gaze away from the gorgeous young man. “And I never wish to do that, my dear Faramir.” _Never. Gerog i chûn nîn._   
“But you have not!” The steward looked at him sharply, then turned so that he was facing Aragorn, one knee drawn up and propped on the armrest. “I just… I do not like talking about it much. My father is dead, and his transgressions should be forgotten and put to rest with his body,” he explained in a low voice. 

Aragorn let his gaze travel over Faramir’s features for just a moment, before he had to force it away, lest he do something unbecoming. He opened his mouth to apologize again, or maybe to steer the conversation in a whole new direction, when he felt Faramir’s hand landing softly on his own, those long archer’s fingers encircling his wrist delicately.    
“I do not wish to trouble either of us with the past. There are far more important matters to talk about, my king.”    
“Aragorn,” the king in question mumbled, correcting his friend, then feeling stupid for it. Thankfully, Faramir only smiled at that, nodding slowly, his eyes sparkling with some newfound mirth.    
_ “Aragorn,” _ he conceded, then released Aragorn’s hand and untwisted his body, sitting properly once again. The king blinked at him, his wrist feeling surprisingly cold without the protective wrapping of Faramir’s fingers around it, even despite the warmth of the fireplace sparkling happily not four feet from them. Aragorn cleared his throat, then looked back at the flames, hoping they would help to restore some of the heat in his suddenly chilly body. 

“I wish you told me what is troubling you so,” Faramir whispered, more to himself than to him, but Aragorn heard it nevertheless.    
“It is nothing important.”  _ If you only knew, my sweet Faramir.  _ “I seem to have fallen into this strange trance everyone associates with the incoming winter,” he explained, hoping he would not be found out. Thankfully, Faramir nodded solemnly, before his face was brightened by another smile.    
“I hope you will feel better once the company reaches Minas Tirith.”    
“The  _ company?” _ Aragorn asked, frowning.    
“Ah… The Hobbits are coming from the Shire for the festival… and Legolas said he will be here, too. I thought you have read the note I left for you on your supper tray yesterday,” Faramir rattled, and Aragorn closed his eyes. 

The tray with the supper - yes, he remembered glancing at it briefly, before he had decided that he had not been hungry and had promptly turned back to work. He had somehow missed Faramir’s note completely.    
“The festival is in a week, I hope they will make it here on time,” the steward went on, and Aragorn rubbed his forehead distractedly. He had forgotten about the festival, too. It was the beginning of winter, a celebration of a good year spent on hard work and brave fighting.

Thinking about the speech he would probably have to write made the king wish for something strong to drink. It was only thanks to his steward’s soft voice making elaborate plans in accordance with Gondor’s traditions that Aragorn stopped himself from running away. He let Faramir’s voice soothe his nerves and, finally, turned his attention to his already cold supper. 

 

-&-

 

The festival started splendidly - at least in Faramir’s humble opinion. There was a countless amount of wine bottles opened and the tables were positively bowing under the weight of the food placed on them. Everyone was happy and chatty, constantly toasting to the king and the kingdom, to the oncoming year and the successes that might come with it. Even Aragorn’s speech had been a huge success - short and to the point, but full of hope for the new beginning for Gondor. 

They had spent three whole evenings composing a fitting text, with Aragorn looking for suitable words and Faramir digging in old books containing previous speeches given by Gondor’s rulers.  How did Aragorn manage to slip inside a few sentences about  _ love returning to the hearts of men along with freedom and peace _ Faramir still did not know, but those very words settled inside him like the first rays of sunshine on a spring morning and warmed him through the rest of the festives. 

He was seated in the grand hall, at the table with Legolas and Merry, talking about the latest news from the realm, with Gimli bending over their table and trying to reach one of the wine bottles. He looked a bit funny like this, with one arm propped on the edge of the wooden surface for support, his other outstretched and fingers grasping thin air.   
“Do you know where Aragorn has disappeared to?” Legolas asked, then looked at Gimli. He frowned, taking in the scene, and grabbed the bottle, holding it out to the Dwarf.   
“No…” Faramir shook his head, looking around curiously. Aragorn was nowhere to be seen. He had been there right after the speech, talking to emissaries and common folk, but he had vanished sometime between then and now. 

“I wonder what’s wrong with him…” Legolas murmured, holding his cup out and prompting Gimli to refill it with wine.    
“Aye, our lad was pretty absent-minded,” the Dwarf piped in. Merry nodded his head solemnly, and Faramir frowned.    
“How do you mean?” The steward asked, glancing from Gimli to Legolas.    
“He seemed....  _ sad. _ Is there something troubling him that you know of?” The Elf inquired. “Maybe we can help?”    
“No, I…” Faramir hesitated, then sighed. “He would not tell me. I have asked him many times now… He is not sleeping well, barely eating…” He explained, biting his lip at the end to stop more from spilling. 

_ He is not smiling nearly enough… _

“He _does_ have a lot on his plate, if you ask me,” Merry said, stabbing a piece of meat with his fork and lifting it. “And he does not have a queen to help him rule the kingdom,” he added, waving the meat around, before he stuffed it inside his mouth.   
“Yes, but he has our Faramir here to help him,” Legolas argued, making Faramir inhale some of his wine and cough violently. After a few hearty claps on the back by Gimli, he found his voice again, scratchy as it was.   
“I do not think it is the lack of a queen that bothers him so,” the steward rasped. He wanted to add something else, but in the same moment, the doors to his right opened, and in walked Aragorn. 

He had changed into a lot more comfortable-looking attire, black leggings and a black, velvet tunic with the Tree of Gondor embroidered on it in silver. He had a hooded cloak trimmed with grey fur resting on his shoulders, all black with shimmering silver thread woven into the material of it. He looked even more regal than he had before in what Faramir had come to call his  _ king clothes. _

“Aragorn!” Legolas called, his smile big enough to show all his pearly teeth. “Finally! We were wondering where you had gone off to!”   
“I had to… _attend_ something,” Aragorn said, coming closer to their table and taking one of the chairs. It turned out the only empty spot was right next to Faramir. The steward swallowed heavily, seeing the king in all his glory up close. From such a small distance, he could clearly see the delicate embroidery on the cloak Aragorn was wearing, a small floral pattern that highlighted the silvery fur lining the material. Sitting so close to such a fine-looking garment worn by such a _fine_ _man,_ Faramir suddenly felt underdressed in his own dark blue robes. True, his clothes were made from fine velvet and there was a silver thread embroidered along the collar and the cuffs, but they were nowhere near good enough to compete with Aragorn’s beauty. 

Faramir blushed when he realized that he had just been marveling over Aragorn’s physique, then reached for a fresh cup of wine standing on the table. He gulped half of it down and tried to stop his cheeks from becoming even redder. It was good that the hall was illuminated by numerous candles and chandeliers, which gave it a warm glow - it was easier to hide his blush like that. 

“I have seen with my own eyes the results of your hard work, Aragorn,” Gimli said, his voice somewhere to Faramir’s left.    
“It is early yet, we need more time for full restorations,” the king answered him. “Thankfully, I have Faramir to dig out all the necessary details about how Minas Tirith had looked like before it was ruined by the war,” Aragorn added, looking at Faramir, his eyes glittering. Faramir smiled shyly.    
“‘Tis nothing, my lord, I’m always happy to help when library work is required.”    
“Nonsense!” Aragorn chuckled, turning back to Legolas and Gimli. “Faramir is the best of librarians and historians when it comes to this realm. I would not know what to do as a king had it not been for his good advice and kind heart.” 

That being said, he took his cup and raised it high above the table.    
“To Faramir!” Aragorn toasted, the others following him swiftly,  Merry spilling some wine in his haste, then looking forlornly at the few drops that had landed on the table, wasted. Faramir gulped down the rest of his wine, hoping his cheeks were not as red as he feared they were. 

The feast went on after that, their conversation taking many different routes, until, a few hours later, it ended on metallurgy.  At this point, Gimli and Legolas were completely engrossed in complicated notions of the craft, while Merry was dozing peacefully with his head propped on one arm placed across the table. Aragorn looked at them fondly, his eyes warm, before he excused himself for the night. Legolas and Gimli paused their animated conversation to bid him goodbyes and went back to describing the details of sword-making. Faramir nodded and wished him a restful night, to which Aragorn replied with a gentle smile. He hesitated briefly before he walked through the door, one hand on the edge of the wood and his eyes searching out Faramir in the crowd, but, upon finding the steward, the king just shook his head dejectedly and went on, disappearing in the dark corridor. 

Shortly after, the guests started to depart for bed, too, and only Legolas and Gimli remained. They watched Faramir leave, Gimli frowning and Legolas with a small smirk.    
“Maybe he is right, Gimli. Maybe it is not about the lack of a  _ queen _ at all…” Legolas murmured, grabbing a bottle and pouring them one last cup of wine for the evening. 

 

-&-

 

“I thought you would be asleep already,” Legolas greeted Faramir when he walked out on the spacious balcony. The guest chambers they had located Legolas in were right next to the steward’s room and they shared the balcony.   
“I could not sleep yet, besides the night is still fairly young,” Faramir admitted, coming closer. Legolas smiled, eyeing him curiously.   
“Only an Elf or a ranger would deem this hour a young one,” he pointed out, turning his head back to face the gardens. Faramir did the same. “It is a beautiful place, but I do not remember it being so some years ago when I have traveled here as an emissary.”   
“Ah yes,” Faramir agreed with a nod. “The gardens were not here… technically, we had a half-wild field full of grass and misshapen bushes from here to here,” he said, indicating the space with a sweep of his arm. “I asked Sam for help in the first month after the war and he designed the area with great care. All we have to do now is to tend to it…”   
“Which cannot be an easy task.” Legolas nodded, his eyes still stuck to the garden. 

Faramir had to admit that, while the task was by no means easy, he was glad that he could do it. It was worth the work to see Aragorn sitting there on some nights, a peaceful expression upon his usually troubled face. 

“What is in there?” Legolas asked, pointing a far wing of the castle, one much closer to the mountains.    
“Aragorn’s chambers. He wished to be moved there from the royal wing at the other end of the castle. He told me that he preferred the sound of river to the sound of an army,” he said, then hurried with an explanation when Legolas frowned at him. “The barracks have been moved closer to the castle, because their previous location was destroyed completely. They are now almost directly under the royal wing.”    
“Ah… Yes, Estel has always preferred the peacefulness of the wild to the grimness of men and their politics.”   
“That’s true,” Faramir agreed.    
“And yet… he is still restless, even so close to his woods and rivers.” And with that, Legolas stared off into the distance, but there was a look of concentration on his face so clear it was visible even in the near-darkness surrounding them. 

Before Faramir could ask about the meaning of his words, Legolas went on, as if prompted by Faramir’s sudden surprise.    
“He is standing on the balcony now, muttering to himself. I cannot hear about what, but the tone of his voice is rather sad…”   
“How do you  _ know?” _ The steward asked curiously, his eyes wide.    
“Elvish hearing, my friend. I hear for miles, see for miles, too, although not through stone, and Aragorn’s balcony is well-shielded from my sight right now. But his voice carries, and it is very sad indeed. Longing, almost.”     
“He had been like that for quite some time now… He would not tell me what is troubling him, and I cannot figure it out on my own.  The harvest was better than expected this year, the war is over and although we have lost a lot of people, there are still plenty to call this land a kingdom. The old is gone and the new is being settled in place… I do not know what else can bother him.” Faramir sighed, placing his hands on the ornate railing and looking down at them. Admitting defeat when it came to their king was unexpectedly painful. He really wanted to help Aragorn… he just needed the right tools. And, above all, he needed to know what was bothering him. 

Legolas straightened and turned, so he was facing Faramir. He placed one hand on Faramir’s shoulder, looking for all the world as if he was merely saying _goodnight._   
“Sometimes, it is not the distant bad that is weighing the hearts of noble people, but the good in their own house. Go to him, Faramir. He sounds like he needs a friend,” the Elf said ominously and walked away, back to his chambers. The steward stood still for a long moment, trying to digest his words, before he shrugged and wandered inside his own bedroom. 

Faramir sat on the bed, thinking on what he had heard, but his friend’s elusive words only made his head hurt. One thing was clear, though - Aragorn needed a friend. Faramir knew that their king’s favorite way of avoiding sleep was to walk in the gardens, but with so many guests ambling around because of the festival, it was impossible to find some peace and quiet, even in Aragorn’s private gardens - the laughter and the music carried with the wind and made no place in Minas Tirith silent on this very night. 

But… what would he say? It was not like he could just walk up to Aragorn and demand answers, not when the king refused to give them for such a long time already. Not to mention the difficulties of getting to Aragorn in the first place - it was well into the night, and appearing in front of the entrance to Aragorn’s wing of the castle, telling his personal guard that he merely wished to  _ talk _ to their king? No, that was a foolish idea altogether. 

_ Unless… _ Unless Faramir was to use the balcony they had used before as kids with Boromir. They were but wee lads back then, fooling around the castle, sneaking up on their nanny. She would be watering plants on the very balcony that now belonged to Aragorn, and they would sneak up to her, using the balcony above. It was an easy task - one just had to climb over the railing and lower himself from the bottom of it. From there, only about three feet of space remained, and that was when they were merely kids. Now, Faramir reckoned, it would be much easier to do. 

Making up his mind, he got up and walked out, trying to cook up a story about why he needed to go to the study above Aragorn’s chambers. Thankfully, the study was full of books, and the guards all knew his love for a good parchment. 

 

-&-

 

Aragorn was smoking his pipe quietly, absentmindedly watching a squirrel hop across the grass in the garden below his balcony. It was dark, but the shadow thrown by the animal was even darker, and it was easy to follow its movements. Sometimes, he envied that squirrel… he envied all those little animals. They were free to go wherever they wanted, do whatever they pleased, while he could not even tell the man he loved about his feelings. It would probably create a scandal the proportions of which Gondor had not yet seen. 

The day had been long, the festives taking a lot out of him, especially that he had spent most of the time with Faramir at his side. His steward looked downright  _ edible _ in his dark blue robes and with his hair half-tied and half-loose. To be honest, Faramir’s mere looks had been the reason for Aragorn’s disappearance at the beginning of the festival, right after his speech. The whole time he had been talking, Faramir had been watching him avidly, a small, private smile etched firmly on his lips, and there was just that much Aragorn could take.  Fearing that he would have made a fool of himself - had anyone dragged their gaze away from his crown and towards the end of his own robes \- he had excused himself and gone back to his chambers to take a few deep breaths and calm his mind. 

It had not helped much, but it had been enough to get through the evening filled with Faramir’s laughter and that lovely blush creeping up his cheeks every now and then.  The fact that Legolas and Gimli had been staring intently at him for the duration of the feast had not helped much, either. But, Aragorn was stubborn, and he had refused to waste time separating himself in his bedroom when he could as well be talking to Faramir. And so, he had joined the party, somehow managing to hide his avid interests well enough not to be noticed. 

_ A, Mîr nîn… _

Aragorn shook his head distractedly, trying not to laugh aloud at his own antics. He had come to call Faramir “Mîr” in his own thoughts.  _ Jewel… _ Of course Faramir was his jewel - he was the brightest shining star of the whole Gondor. Quick-witted and with a brilliant mind, always ready to offer his council, a good piece of advice or simply a smile, Faramir was an irreplaceable part of Aragorn’s life. He understood the king perfectly, and knew exactly what to do when Aragorn was getting too run down by the weight of the crown. On top of his good looks, that simple quality made him as something of a dream that came true for Aragorn. If he could only explain to the man the nature of his feelings-

“Ah!” 

A half-bitten off yelp tore Aragorn out of his musings, and he swirled around with his eyes wide.  His hand automatically let go of the pipe he was holding and went to the sword he was not carrying. Fisting the robes at his hip out of instinct, before his fingers realized they were grabbing soft material instead of the sure grip of Andúril, Aragorn watched with his breath halted, as the would-be attacker picked himself from the stony floor of the balcony. Once the heap was standing upright, Aragorn could not help himself - he laughed aloud. 

Faramir was standing in front of him, clad in a simple shirt and a pair of dark leggings, a small sheepish smile working its way to his lips, even as he grimaced taking a step forward.    
“Are you alright, Mîr?” Aragorn asked, silently cursing himself for the slip in Faramir’s name. But, the young steward did not seem to have heard him, being far more concerned with inspecting his right ankle. Aragorn made his way to him, picking up his pipe as he went, thumping it on the railing to clear out the last of the leaves, before he pushed it behind the sash of his robe. 

“Faramir…” he prompted gently, getting only a slight grunt in response. The steward was still trying to assess the damage, holding his injured leg a foot above the ground and bending it this way and that, testing the range of movement.    
“I think I have not broken it,” he said through gritted teeth, and  Aragorn tsked at him, getting down on one knee to inspect the damage himself. Naturally, Faramir tried to jump back seeing that.    
“Sire, you should not kne-”   
“Shush, you stubborn man!” Aragorn said, aiming for stern, but there was a joking edge to his words. “What in Arda possessed you to do that?” He asked, using the very tips of his fingers to assess the state of Faramir’s ankle. 

It did not look broken, not even twisted, but his friend had certainly pulled something when he had jumped down on the balcony. The king looked up at him apologetically when Faramir hissed at the pressure he had put on the sore spot.    
“You should be better in the morning, but I do not think it would be wise to do any walking till then,” Aragorn concluded, getting up. “Come. I have wine and the fire is still warm,” he prompted, slipping one arm around Faramir’s back and ushering him inside his chambers. 

 

-&-

 

Half an hour later, they had the fire stoked up, the wine swirling in their cups, and a few pieces of meat saved from the festival and delivered by one of the guards himself. Faramir was angry at himself for revealing his presence in his king’s chambers like this, but Aragorn did not seem concerned in the least, so the steward let the matter rest. He reasoned that Aragorn’s personal guard was paid to keep him safe, not to judge what he was doing with his steward in the middle of the night on the balcony. 

“So… what exactly gave you the idea that you should climb down from the balcony like a Harad assassin?” The king asked, his voice amused. Faramir felt himself blush again.   
“I merely wished to speak with you,” the steward mumbled, wincing when Aragorn had to bend his ankle a little to bandage it properly.   
“In the middle of the night on my _balcony?”_ The king reminded him, raising an inquiring eyebrow. Faramir bit his lip. “Whatever was wrong with the doors?”   
“There are guards outside.”  
“And they are armed up to their teeth in case the second most important man in Gondor wants to pass through,” Aragorn replied, grinning.   
“I did not think it wise to make up a more grave reason to sell to them just to come in here and inquire about your well-being.” Faramir looked down at his bandaged leg. 

“You would not have to,” Aragorn muttered, finishing his work, tying the bandage off gently. He placed both hands around Faramir’s ankle, right under the edge of his leggings that had been pushed up to prevent them from getting in the way. Faramir could have sworn that Aragorn’s fingers rubbed over the sliver of naked skin on his shin by sheer accident.    
“My lord?”    
“Aragorn.”   
“Sorry… What do you mean, Aragorn?” He corrected himself, more curious the more he thought about what his king had said. Aragorn sighed, looking up at him. 

“I told the guards  _ months ago _ to let you in at all times, no questions necessary. I thought it would be efficient not to stop you on your way here, in case you were in a hurry or if the matter was delicate,” Aragorn explained, getting up and sitting on his bed right next to Faramir. The steward straightened up, but remained in place, not commenting on the lack of space between them. They were close enough that they could feel the warmth radiating from each other.    
_ “Was  _ it a delicate matter?” Aragorn asked softly, his voice but a murmur. Faramir sighed. Aragorn was not going to let it go.    
“I have talked to Legolas. He was worried about you.” At that, Aragorn scoffed.    
“And what have I done to make him troubled over my well-being?”    
“We were standing on the balcony, talking. He said that he could hear you and that you sounded… well,  _ sad.” _

“Damn those Elves and their hearing,” Aragorn grumbled, then he seemed to slump a little, his shoulders hunching, elbows going to rest on his knees.    
“Aragorn?”    
“There is something that has been on my mind for quite some time, but I do not know what to do with it, my dear friend,” Elessar admitted, his voice as delicate as one of the songs from the depths of Lothlórien.    
“Maybe I can be of help?” Faramir proposed, half-turning to face his king, one knee bent to accommodate the awkward position. Aragorn sighed, then fell silent for a few long moments. When he started talking again, his gaze was stuck in the flames in front of him. 

“Very well. There is a person who holds my great interest… a very special person. But I cannot approach this person, because it would probably cause a huge scandal in the whole kingdom. What do you think I should do, Faramir?” Aragorn murmured, his voice barely there. Faramir bit his tongue not to let an anguished groan escape.  _ A person who holds Aragorn’s interest… _ Well, that was it, then. He would have to soldier through, somehow. 

He waited, in case Aragorn wanted to add something else, hoping to calm down his heart which was squeezing itself in his chest painfully, but nothing followed. They were seated so close together that it was impossible not to  _ feel _ Aragorn’s sorrow, coming off of him in waves so thick they were almost tangible. Even without using his gift, Faramir could easily sense the emotional state his liege was in. No matter his own hurting heart, the steward suddenly felt that he had to do anything he could to ease Aragorn’s suffering somehow. 

“I think you should tell that person how you feel.”  _ My lord _ was at the tip of his tongue, but Faramir stopped himself. He would not show how bad he felt, it would only add to Aragorn’s sadness. “And, if the response you get is optimistic, you two can figure something out.”    
“And what of Gondor?” Aragorn asked bitterly, shaking his head in dismay.    
“ What of it? Aragorn, through years, Gondor has seen far worse things than a good man falling in love. And if it is its king, why should the people care? You are a good ruler, they would not dare to use it against you.” 

While he was speaking, Faramir pondered the reasons why Aragorn would not want to pursue his happiness. Was the person married? No, he would not go after a married person, not if he intended to parade his lover around the citadel, and that was the only way people could learn about their king’s relationship. The person must have been low-born, then.    
“You do not need to worry. If the problem here is the social status, you can always change it. You are the king, nobody will stop you from granting someone a title,” Faramir said, happy with the idea he had come up with. Aragorn let out a slow breath which ended with a small chuckle, but it did not sound happy at all.    
“Aníron gi mibed, meleth nîn,” the king murmured, rather to himself. Faramir almost asked him to repeat it, surprised by the sudden change of the language. He had learned some Sindarin, back when he had still been working on the old texts brought over from Mirkwood many years ago, but the sudden switch shocked him into silence. 

His Elvish was not perfect, but he knew enough to translate the sentence after he had repeated it in his mind a few times… 

And then his eyes widened. The meaning of what Aragorn had said - the _I_ and the _kiss_ seemingly strange with the addition of _want_ and _you_ \- was so abstract that Faramir just blinked at him stupidly, hoping Aragorn would turn around and face him. But the king remained staring into flames, his eyes getting sadder with every passing moment, and Faramir just could not _take it._ There was a warm feeling spreading through him which started as soon as the words gained flesh within his mind - a warm feeling that was much more powerful than the ice encasing his heart ever since he had learned about the existence of that mysterious special person. 

Against his better judgement, because Aragorn would not look at him and refused to explain himself, Faramir let the iron grip of his control slip just a little, calling forth his gift to enlighten his clouded perception. 

The wave that hit Faramir as soon as he had opened his heart and mind to better attune to his king’s thoughts and emotions was so great, he nearly reeled from the force of it. Aragorn was a wild storm of love and passion, with sorrow swirling between and darkening everything, until the feelings were nearly muted out. But, there was one thing that stood out, one thing that was as clear as a scream in an empty hall. Faramir.  _ Faramir.  _ His name seemed to permeate every emotion, thought and feeling that lived inside his king, somehow saving it from drowning between sadness and desperation,  standing out against them like gold between rocks in shallow waters. Blindingly clear, visible from a great distance and shimmering brightly in the sun even while at the bottom of a wild river. 

With a small gasp, Faramir surfaced, cutting the connection and opening his eyes. He blinked blearily at Aragorn who was still sitting next to him, unmoved and staring into the fire. Faramir knew it had been only a moment when he had used his gift, the space of two breaths, nothing more, but it had left him trembling with overwhelming knowledge and unbridled happiness bubbling inside. Hoping he was not making a grave error, Faramir placed one hand on Aragorn’s shoulder, intending to make him finally look at him. 

The touch, however, startled Aragorn. He glanced at the steward with wide eyes, before he sprang up and walked to the desk that was standing in the far corner of the chamber. He shuffled through the various parchments lying upon the surface of it, before he retrieved a very ornate one, decorated with silver ink and delicate flowers at the margins. He brought it to a very surprised Faramir, handing it over and looking down at the floor. He looked so unkingly in that moment that Faramir, still shocked, took it between numb fingers. 

“I have worked on it for some time now. I intended it to be a gift for you for your birthday… I know it is soon,” Aragorn said, his voice wavering slightly. Faramir glanced at the parchment, but he could not focus on the words, not with Aragorn looking so distressed. “If you would like to have it, that is.”    
“My lord?”    
“You do not have to give me the answer now… you may take it with you, read it through carefully and then decide. I just… you reminded me about it with what you said.” Aragorn finished, his words getting quieter the longer he went on. 

He started to pace the room, slowly but surely, in an almost distracted manner. He looked like a man who could not decide what to do. Faramir watched him for a moment, before he placed the parchment carefully on the bedside table. He did not know what was written on it, but he would have enough time later to address it, if his king so wished. For now, he had a very distressed Aragorn walking aimlessly around and he wanted nothing more than to soothe his nerves. 

Slowly, minding his ankle, Faramir got up and stepped closer to him, getting into his path and effectively blocking his way. Aragorn paused, but did not look up.    
“Aragorn?” Faramir prompted softly, one hand coming up to the man’s cheek. As soon as his fingers made contact with the warm skin, Aragorn closed his eyes, a long sigh leaving his lips in a rush.    
“Meleth nîn,” the king breathed out, so quietly that it was almost inaudible.    
“You can,” Faramir said, referring to Aragorn’s previous words spoken in Sindarin. Aragorn went still against him, his eyes opening and searching Faramir’s in the half-darkness of flickering candles. The steward smiled shyly, biting his lip, before he added, in a whisper, “mibo nin, Aragorn.”

It took a few moments, the entirety of them spent on Aragorn’s hesitation, his mind desperately trying to put together the puzzle it had been presented with. But, when he finally understood the meaning, when the tentative syllables connected together and formed a full picture in his head, he fell against Faramir.  The steward did not have enough time to brace himself, and they stumbled backwards a few steps, with Aragorn’s hands flying to Faramir’s face and cradling his jaw gently while his lips attacked Faramir’s with hunger known only by men starved. The kiss was surprisingly sweet for something so wild, and Faramir felt himself melting under the onslaught, opening his mouth on a small gasp only to have it conquered by his beloved king. 

“Aragorn…” Faramir tried, maybe to slow him down, maybe to try and gain some footing. When he widened his stance out of instinct, a bolt of pain shot through his ankle, but he did not pay it any attention. His mind was reeling, his own hands clutching desperately at Aragorn’s robes and making sure they would not separate even for the briefest of seconds. The king was kissing him with a desperation fitting a battlefield, almost like it was the last chance he would get before he went to war, never to return. “My lord…” Faramir mumbled, only partly conscious that they were traveling through the room. 

_ It was not Aragorn who was leading them. _

Faramir realized that finally when the backs of his legs hit the bed frame. He gasped and leaned back, effectively ending the kiss. Aragorn stood there, rough palms migrating from Faramir’s cheeks to his shoulders. The king’s chest was heaving with rushed breaths, his eyes downcast, staring between them yet - Faramir was sure of that - unseeing.   
“If this is a mistake,” Aragorn whispered, so softly that a breeze could wipe the words away, “if you do not wish it… You have to go now, Mîr.” 

Faramir’s heart gave a hard throb at the name Aragorn used, but his mind clouded with worry at the tone he said it in. The words themselves could have been considered almost a threat - had they been delivered in the midst of fighting - but the king did not look like a dangerous opponent at all. He stood there silently, his whole body curling slightly forward, and it seemed that only his hands still gripping Faramir’s shoulders were keeping him from collapsing to the ground. It hit Faramir suddenly that Aragorn was not dangerous to him, nor trying to appear so. He was  _ scared.  _

“Is this what has been troubling you, my king?” Faramir asked gently, his hands not giving up their death hold on Aragorn’s robes. Elessar nodded, a slight bob of his head that was almost imperceptible. “You need not fear.” And with that, Faramir finally relinquished his hold on him. His hands went to Aragorn’s, prying them away from his shoulders, bringing them between their bodies. Bowing, Faramir kissed them one after another. 

“Faramir…” Aragorn breathed out, his eyes finally lifting, staring at his steward with awe.    
“‘Tis no mistake,” Faramir confirmed, then lowered himself on the bed behind him tentatively, sitting up on it with his feet still planted firmly on the ground. He wanted to lie back and tug Aragorn after him, but the king had other plans. It seemed that, after hearing that this was not a mistake at all, Aragorn’s legs gave up on supporting him. He slid down, landing on his knees in front of a very shocked Faramir. The steward tried to help him back up, tugged at his hands before they were pulled away and wrapped around his waist, but he had little to say.  Aragorn leaned forward and hugged him fiercely, his cheek pressed against the soft material covering Faramir’s stomach, chest forcing its way between Faramir’s legs. 

“Aragorn… you should not-” Faramir started, but was his speech about the appropriateness of a king kneeling in front of his steward was cut short by Aragorn’s face turning up to look at him.  His eyes were soft, glittering with a curious sort of light, and when he pulled away slightly and leaned up for a kiss, Faramir was helpless. He bowed down, claiming Aragorn’s mouth, bringing forth a moan when their tongues met. He let out a faint groan when Aragorn arched up against him, curious hands finding their way under the loose shirt he was wearing, slipping over bare skin.    
  
“Mîr nîn…” the king whispered as he broke for air, his voice full of reverence.  He did not stay idle, though - as soon as his mouth parted with Faramir’s, it found a new target. He ducked closer, pressing his lips against Faramir’s neck, making the steward shiver when his tongue slid along the tendons and dipped in the hollows. 

Faramir could not seem to get enough air into his lungs. Each and every of Aragorn’s touches was like little bolts of lightning, shooting through him and pooling warmly in the pit of his stomach. The king let his lips travel lower, pressing one parting kiss at the edge of the loose collar of his shirt, before he dragged them down over his chest, his breath hot even through the layer of cotton. Holding his breath in anticipation, Faramir watched as his shirt was lifted, pushed up until Aragorn could place his mouth right over his steward’s heart. The sharp inhale the action prompted made the king smile into his skin, before he proceeded to drag his tongue all over the exposed flesh in broad swipes. 

When he paused, Faramir became suddenly aware of where exactly the king’s hands stopped their previously aimless travel. Biting his lip to stop any sounds from escaping, he watched as Aragorn’s fingers trailed along the waistband of his leggings, until they encountered the lacings. Slowly, his gaze meeting Faramir’s, Aragorn undid them carefully, prying them open with skilled hands. The steward got lost in Aragorn’s eyes - dark and shimmering, desire burning in them as clear and hot as the flames in the fireplace.    
  
Faramir wanted to say something, to whisper all those sweet things that were suddenly swirling around in his head, but he did not get a chance. In seconds, Aragorn’s hand was diving down into his smallclothes, fishing him out, and the next thing he knew, the king had his lips wrapped around him, the heat of his mouth reducing his steward to wordless moans and groans. His hips shifted forward on their own accord, even though he tried to still his body not to hurt his king by accident. But Aragorn took it in stride, his head moving with Faramir, hit tongue caressing the underside with maddening precision.  _ He must have done this before, _ Faramir thought, and then he could not think anymore, because Aragorn was taking him deeper in, a low hum vibrating around Faramir’s length, and the steward knew it would not take long at all.  Pleasure was spreading through him like wildfire, intensified by the knowledge that it was his king, the ruler of Gondor and Arnor, who was pleasuring him with such single minded intent.

In the end, it took no more than a minute of Aragorn’s skillful handling, a couple of fingernails digging into his backside and another enthusiastic hum for Faramir to lose himself completely.  He exploded with a long moan that could have been Aragorn’s name, had it not been so consumed by pleasure. The king did not falter for a second - he kept him inside his mouth, drank him in hungrily, and only after Faramir started to twitch did he release him. The steward fought hard not to just fall back on the bed, his bones feeling as if they had turned to water just a few moments before. He looked down at Aragorn, noticing the almost shy glance the king sent his way. 

“Aragorn,” Faramir started, the rest of his sentence vanishing when he spotted Aragorn’s tongue peeking between his lips, licking them quickly. The realization that he must have been tasting Faramir’s seed upon his own flesh left the younger man stifling a gasp. “Come here,” he murmured, both hands fisting in Aragorn’s robes and pulling him up. The king went without resistance, letting himself be manhandled on the bed. They rolled over, until Faramir was kneeling over his body, half-straddling his king.    
“Meleth nîn,” Aragorn whispered reverently, but his hands were clutching Faramir’s sides and his body was rubbing up against him subtly. Faramir smiled, then went to kiss a slow path down his king’s chest, only to be stopped by Aragorn’s hands. He sent him a questioning look. 

“Another time,” Aragorn mumbled, shaking his head slightly. “I fear it would be all over before you could get to your task,” he admitted, his cheeks turning slightly pink even in the half-darkness around them. Faramir’s eyes widened at that, and Aragorn grinned. “What can I say, Mîr? You are way too delicious…”    
“Oh…” Faramir breathed out, but he nodded, finally knowing what Aragorn meant. He bowed over him and let his hand travel the length of Aragorn’s chest, the velvety material of his robes soft under his fingers. “What does the king command?” He asked, aiming for playful, but Aragorn reacted to the title with a hiss and a desperate buck of his hips.    
“Oh Valar…  _ kiss me,” _ the king requested, at the same time grabbing Faramir’s wandering hand and pushing it lower, between the split in the robes and inside the breeches he was wearing underneath. 

Guided by Aragorn, Faramir let his fingers slide and curl around the hot flesh he found under layers of material. The king heaved a deep breath, his nostrils flaring against Faramir’s, before he removed his own hand and left his steward to his own devices. It was not hard to discover what to do, especially because Faramir had had some prior experience at least in this simple act.  And simple it was, but how breathtakingly beautiful…

The king let himself be kissed, enthusiastically opening his mouth and welcoming Faramir’s tongue with his own, stroking them together, while Faramir focused on moving his hand. The rhythm was slow at first, but it did not stop Aragorn from arching his back and rocking his hips up for more. His foot was sliding over the covers, slipping on the soft fabric, trying to find some leverage, and it made Aragorn growl when he did not succeed. After a while, he gave up, letting his legs fall open, giving himself fully to his steward.  Faramir was breathless with happiness, leaning back and breaking the kiss just to see Aragorn’s eyes fall shut in bliss. His hand found a steady rhythm, slow enough not to end it too soon, but with enough snap to it to make Aragorn bite his lip. Every time Faramir saw his teeth closing over the already abused flesh, he would twist his hand just right, only for the perverse pleasure at seeing his king lose his mind. 

Aragorn tried to contain the wild sounds that wanted to escape him - his personal guard was paid to serve him, still, he did not want them gossiping too much - but it was all in vain. A few skillful twists of Faramir’s hand and the king was moaning out his approval, his voice loud in the silence around them. It felt almost magical to have his steward so near, practically pressing him into the bed, his hand… _oh Valar, his hand…_   
“Faramir… Mîr… Meleth nîn…” Aragorn whispered, dazed, his hands getting lost in the wild mane of Faramir’s hair. He messed it up, threaded his fingers through the curls and let them slip velvetly over his fingertips. The younger man took his babbling as a clue to speed up his movements, and soon, Aragorn was shaking all over, his muscles pulling tight with the oncoming release. He risked a glance at Faramir, then had to close his eyes when pleasure hit him with the strength of an angry warg. 

For countless moments stretching into eternity, Aragorn could not speak, could not breathe, could not  _ think, _ lying shaking on the bed, his mind filled with Faramir’s eyes and a small smile playing on his lips. Pleasure crashed through him and swept away the world, leaving the king gasping helplessly, his body trembling, fingers clutching tightly at Faramir’s hair. It was only when his steward dove down to kiss him softly that Aragorn regained some functionality of his brain - only enough to kiss him back sloppily, a very satisfied hum leaving his lips just to end up swallowed by Faramir. 

It took a few long minutes for them to get their breathing back under control. Faramir was first to recover, taking his hand out of Aragorn’s breeches and wiping it on his own shirt. Aragorn tried not to think about licking that very hand the next time…  _ The next time? Oh Valar, slow down your highness, or your steward may yet give up his post. _

But, the steward in question was currently stretching himself out next to Aragorn, his body pressing against Aragorn’s side, and the king had no hopes of stifling the wide smile that stretched his lips.  He sneaked one arm around Faramir’s chest, pulling him even closer, then bowed his head to kiss Faramir’s temple. The young man sighed, snuggling up into Aragorn’s embrace, one leg wandering hesitantly up, until the king shifted his own knee and prompted him to place it high over his thighs.    
“What now?” Faramir murmured, his voice quiet. There was the unmistakable sound of a small yawn being stifled, and Aragorn chuckled at that.    
“Now we should sleep.” 

He was ready to stretch his muscles and throw his hand out to look blindly for something to cover them with, when Faramir tensed and made as if to get up.    
“Very well,” he said, “I shall return to my-”   
“You shall do nothing of the sort!” Aragorn stopped him, hugging him firmly to his chest. Faramir looked up at him, leaning away slightly in order to do so. Aragorn felt instantly cold.    
“My lord?”    
“I… Faramir, considering what has just transpired between us I think it would be better if you stayed here for the night… I mean, of course, if you want to. The fire in your chambers is probably long dead, and it is a long walk… your ankle will not take it well.” He was grasping at straws and he knew it. But, whether it was his desperate attempt, or Faramir’s own will, the steward relaxed again.    
“Do you want me to stay, my king?” He asked, the words so sweet and soft that Aragorn had to kiss him.    
“Yes, my prince,” he murmured, then dove down to press his lips against Faramir’s. 

It was delicate and smooth, soothing in its quality, and Aragorn wished it would go on forever. However, the kiss was broken by Faramir, who leaned back again with a frown.    
“I am not a prince…” he said, his confused eyes gazing up at Aragorn. The king grinned, glancing at the parchment that was still lying on his bedside table, the ornate flowers drawn on the margins glinting with silver like moonlight in the darkest of nights.    
“Well, as a matter of fact, you are. I have already signed it, you can accept or tear it to shreds if you so wish, but the title is already yours, if you want it,” Aragorn explained, shrugging, trying to appear nonchalant, but his wide smile was betraying his true happiness. 

Faramir’s frown deepened and he reached for the document, sitting up to read it. The way his eyes widened more with every word he went through in the meager light was absolutely priceless.    
“My lord…” he breathed out once he was done, jerking his head up to meet Aragorn’s gaze.    
“Aragorn,” the king reminded him gently, still grinning widely. Faramir shook his head at him.    
“I cannot accept this gift… it is too much…”   
“My dear Faramir,” Aragorn stopped him, taking the parchment into his own hand, before he twisted around and placed it on the little table again. Turning back, he took Faramir’s hands into his own, making sure he had all of his attention. 

“You are the hardest working person in this whole realm. I dare say, in the whole of Arda… You love Ithilien, I know you do - I have seen how your eyes shine every time we work on any laws concerning that region.”   
“But… but a  _ prince?” _ Faramir gasped. Aragorn shook his head.    
“I would have made you the King of Ithilien, but then, I fear you would not agree to stay here in Gondor and spend only a few weeks every year in Emyn Arnen…” Aragorn bit his lip, glancing at Faramir’s hands.  “Would you like to stay with your old king in Minas Tirith, and visit Ithilien when the need arises or when  _ we _ need a holiday?” Aragorn asked softly, his voice barely a whisper. 

Faramir was speechless. He did not think he would have time to visit Ithilien on regular basis anyway, not with all the work he was required to do in the citadel… To hear the king propose not only that, but also going there with  _ him? _ It was not something he had to think very hard about. Certainly not, if the implications of what Aragorn was proposing were as clear as those. Aragorn spoke of them going there  _ together. _ The steward could not have been happier.    
“My king,” Faramir started, aiming for serious, but the merry tone shone through his words. “I would be honored to take you to Emyn Arnen and any other place in Ithilien as its prince,” he said, smiling when Aragorn’s eyes rose to meet his.    
“Truly?” Aragorn asked, and all Faramir could do, was to dive down and kiss him fiercely.

“Le melin, ernil nîn,” Aragorn whispered when they broke apart a few moments later. Faramir smiled.    
“I love you, too, my king.” 

 

-&-

 

They had fallen asleep together on Aragorn’s bed, and, because the king had insisted at checking his ankle thoroughly on the next morning, they were spectacularly late for breakfast. 

“Aragorn! Faramir!” Legolas called to them as soon as they stepped into the hall, a glass of wine raised highly in greeting. Aragorn smiled, nodding, then walked to the table, making sure Faramir followed suit. They took their places - Aragorn at the end of the table, Faramir to his left. Gimli was sitting to Aragorn’s right, followed by Legolas and some noblemen from his council. The Hobbits were seated to Faramir’s left, Pippin barely noticing them, too engrossed in devouring a roasted leg of what Aragorn guessed could have been a rabbit earlier. 

“We are terribly sorry for our delay,” the king started, but Legolas stopped him with a wide smile that was anything but innocent.    
“Estel, it is alright, dear friend. We have heard about Faramir’s bad ankle and we assumed you would be helping him, so we have started without you,” he explained. Gimli snorted.    
“Helping him stay off his feet, that is” the Dwarf added, sipping from his goblet, amusement tugging at his moustache. 

Aragorn grinned, glancing at Faramir conspiratorially, but the younger man was looking down at his empty plate in dismay, his eyes downcast and somehow… sad. _Why was he sad?_   
“Is there anything troubling you, my prince?” The king asked quietly, leaning forward to keep his question out of the earshot of the other guests. Faramir sighed.   
“They know…” Faramir whispered, making Aragorn frown.   
“They do… so what about it? Does it make you uncomfortable?”  
“No, nothing of the sort,” Faramir shook his head firmly, then let his gaze travel to Aragorn. The king smiles seeing those beautiful eyes focused on him. Like diamonds… _Jewels._  
“Why the despair, then?”   
“They will laugh at you… They will try to ridicule you. My lord,” he started, but Aragorn shushed him gently.   
“Faramir…” Aragorn sighed, then looked around the table. 

They were seated among friends… mostly. The only people not belonging to Aragorn’s closest circle of companions were the noblemen from the council, and they, too, were the ones that had always spoken in his favor. Even the maids serving them that day were the ones who seemed to see Aragorn as Gondor’s own Valar. They truly had nothing to fear here, not amongst those people. 

“If they want to ridicule me for loving you, meleth nîn, then they will have to look for another place to stay,” he said at last, his expression becoming stormy. Faramir gave him a long look, before he turned his attention to the food, reaching for a piece of bread and looking for meat to eat with it. Elessar sighed again. 

“If they were not to laugh at us, if that possibility was off the table, would you be agreeable to be public with our affections?” Aragorn asked conversationally, reaching for a jug of wine and pouring it into Faramir’s glass, then into his own. Faramir frowned, pondering the question.    
“Yes, I… I just wish they would not try to turn this matter on its head and try to use it against you. You know they will... Just like you know there has not been a king yet that would be so…  _ against traditions.” _   
“Well, maybe they need dusting off,” Aragorn muttered unhappily, placing the jug back on the table. He looked at Faramir again, noticing how downcast he looked at that moment, no doubt feeling the imagined pressure of a thousand stares across the table. 

Not thinking anymore, Aragorn leaned over, lifted Faramir’s head gently and kissed him softly. He had only meant to bring some of that shine back to Faramir’s smile, to give his eyes those happy sparkles that had greeted him in the morning… but Faramir’s lips were delicate and tasted of light wine, and the prince -  _ his prince  _ \- was so impossibly warm, that Aragorn could not help himself deepening the kiss. Soon, he was kissing Faramir like a man drowning, delighting in the way the younger man responded, stopping only when they both ran out of breath. 

When they broke apart, panting softly, the world around them greeted them with absolute silence. Nobody was talking anymore, there were no sounds of eating or drinking, even the usual scraping of forks and knives had quieted. Aragorn did not mind the silence, quite the opposite - he was content to get back to kissing his prince, but a cough rendered his next move to a short peck on Faramir’s lips. Raising an eyebrow, Aragorn turned his attention back to the table, where one of the noblemen from his council was staring at him. 

“My king Elessar,” the man started, raising from his seat. Aragorn straightened on his chair, then thought better of it and leaned against the backrest. He looked up at the nobleman challenging.   
“Yes, my lord?”   
“I believe something important should be brought to your attention, sire,” the man said, looking around the table stoically. Everyone’s eyes went to him, even the Hobbits stopped eating their third helping of the rabbit.   
“And what may that be?” Aragorn asked, a small smirk tugging at his lips. The member of the council dragged his gaze away from the guests and focused on the king again. 

“It is customary here in Gondor to announce the king’s betrothal to the council, before the king in question brings his chosen one to the table. The old laws say that…”   
“I do not  _ care _ for the old laws,” Aragorn growled, his hand seeking out Faramir’s, fingers wrapping around the slender wrist as soon as they encountered warm skin. He would not let anyone take him away, not even Gondor itself.   
“...the old laws say that the council should be the first to assess whether the candidate is appropriate, before the Steward of Gondor is sent to announce it to everyone else.” The man went on, barely stopping at Aragorn’s interlude.    
“And what does the council have to say about my choice?” Aragorn asked, raising his head defiantly. The nobleman gave him a long look, before he glanced at Faramir.    
“I cannot speak for the whole council, as we are not all here today, sire, but I, for one, would like to congratulate you on choosing one of the noblest men Minas Tirith has seen.” 

Hearing that, Faramir went very still, before his eyes flew up in apparent shock. He looked as if somebody had just told him that there are two moons instead of one - a childlike wonder written all over his face.  Aragorn grinned, nodding his head slightly to the nobleman.    
“I thank you for your kind words, my lord.”    
“There still remains the matter of who will announce it to the people, since the steward-”   
“Prince of Ithilien,” Aragorn corrected him, his smile as wide as anyone had ever seen.    
“Very well,” the nobleman said, not missing a beat.  “Since the Prince of Ithilien should be the one to do it, but I do think you two will manage well on your own.” And with that, he took his own glass and raised it in the air in a silent toast. 

Aragorn nodded again, raising his own glass. He looked at Faramir, who was staring straight at him. There was no chance at stopping himself - Aragorn leaned closer again and kissed Faramir once more, smiling against his prince’s lips when a chorus of happy voices sounded around them, Gimli and Legolas’ “Finally!” being the loudest. 

In the end, it turned out that nobody had to announce anything. By the end of the week - with the help of the king’s personal guard - everyone in Minas Tirith knew of the happiness of their beloved Elessar. It came as quite a shock for Faramir that people reacted with smiles and good wishes, instead of fists and offensive words - especially that a male lover was a lot more unconventional than a low-born one - but he could not complain. Not when he was greeted every morning by the sight of his smiling king, diving down to kiss him awake to welcome another day together. 

 

_Meleth nîn - My love  
_ _Gerog i chûn nîn - You hold my heart_ _  
_ _A, Mîr nîn…_ _\- Ah, jewel mine...  
_ _Aníron gi mibed - I want to kiss you_ _  
_ _Mibo nin - kiss me_ _  
_ __Le melin, ernil nîn - I love you, my prince  
I beng nîn linna a vagol lîn - My bow sings with your sword  



End file.
